


The Who and the What

by Ambikai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambikai/pseuds/Ambikai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Lestrade forgets and when he remembers it’s a horrible jolt, a rude awakening, a twist in his gut, a plunge into ice when he remembers what exactly Mycroft Holmes is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Who and the What

Sometimes Lestrade forgets and when he remembers it’s a horrible jolt, a rude awakening, a twist in his gut, a plunge into ice when he remembers what exactly Mycroft Holmes is and what he is capable of. Sometimes he forgets all that, forgets the fact Mycroft’s decisions can affect a nation, can destroy lives just because he thinks it’s the best cause of action. A text, a phone call, it can all come crumbling down if that man is calling the shots.

He forgets this in moments when he’s lying there tired, bone tired. He can barely move. His body feels like lead, weighing him down, everything a trial. Its always like this after long difficult cases that Sherlock won’t help with – or even when he does help the case is so bloody, so gory, why would you carve up a six year old’s boy face because, why would you do that? He just drowns for a moment when he gets home, struggling to get the keys in the door, dropping them just outside the key bowl on the cabinet, his coat being tossed onto the floor as he toes off his shoes.

He then stands there for a moment, breathing probably. He’s not sure because after all muscles start to work again and he stumbles to the kitchen, pulls out a beer, and stumbles to the couch. The television is switched on, he isn’t sure of the channel and then he just slumps down.

When Mycroft comes home the beer hasn’t been touched, his eyelids are closed, and he’s dimly aware that someone is in his house but he can’t summon the energy to check if it is Mycroft. It probably is he knows that. But it might not be. These thoughts pass through him; hold no weight or real consideration.

Mycroft tuts at that. He reads minds or so Lestrade wonders sometimes in moments like these. Mycroft just says he observes. He doesn’t say what. It doesn’t matter because in the end Mycroft just knows what he needs.

The couch dips when Mycroft joins him, and then Lestrade is pulled to rest on Mycroft’s leg, a pillow. His hair is stroked, soft and light, growing harder in some moments as those clever fingers relieve tensions and worries and concerns. If before his body was lead, is mind wrecked with images, now there is nothing but this stretch of blackness going on and on, cushioned by this warm feeling deep in his chest.

In these moments he doesn’t have to do anything, just appreciate that his Mycroft is home on time, that he is on time and that they can get up in a hour, cook some dinner while drinking wine, chuckle and laugh, making jibes and comments before kisses here and there, feather light at first then something harder and more dominant.

This is a pleasant fantasy and to be reality.

The phone rings sharp and brittle. Brittle -- that’s not quite right but horribly right. It sounds and Mycroft leans over – phone on side table and takes the call. The voice is short, sharp, punctured with how are you so incompetent. Then there is a pause, a nod. He can feel the movement from where he is resting. Mycroft’s hand has stopped stroking now, it’s just resting there. Everything is tense and he knows this is serious because Mycroft is just listening for so long, too long.

Mycroft says. He can hear the words, almost, fighting for awareness but losing it again as the stroking continues. This is what scares him. Mycroft is destroying something, someone, collateral damage, making a decision that Lestrade would tremble with if it were himself but still aware of him. Mycroft Holmes can still take care of Lestrade completely even in a broken moment like this, and he is so sure that he doesn’t need to leave the room to do so.

It terrifies him.

The phone call ends and Mycroft bends over, pressing a kiss on his forehead, bringing him to abrupt awareness. “Dinner?”

His eyes open now meeting the steel-blue ones, both of them holding.

“You needn’t worry.”

“I can’t control my emotions.”

Another pause.

“But I do trust you.”

Domesticity continues with steel-blue melting, a warm smile, because he can’t forget who Mycroft is even if the what scares him.


End file.
